


The Sweet Embrace of Death

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Series: Porn for every Power [8]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Do Not Archive, Other, Religious Content, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 16:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: Written for a kink meme prompt: The End/Oliver, surreal tentacle porn.





	The Sweet Embrace of Death

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for Mr Blackwood and Onnastik for helping me!

The thing pulses against Oliver's leg, and he stands very still.

He doesn't dare to look. It's not... it's cold, but not as much as the tendrils usually are. And it actively tries to touch him, to bind him, instead of recoiling.

Is it something totally different? Are they trying to be... nice? The idea could make him laugh.

Or maybe it doesn't feel that cold or that foreign because it's his own death, waiting for him.

The thing wrapped against his leg is slowly climbing to the inside of Oliver's thigh, where it squeezes again, stronger this time. A rush of blood warms his body, making the pulsating tendrils seem even colder against his heated skin.

I'll come back to London, he promises in his head. Of course, the icy death veins don't hear his words, but they know all of his feelings, his decisions, much like the veins of his real body. They let him go. He keeps his promise.

* * *

Oliver wakes up wrapped in tendrils.

It's unfair. He should have seen them in the dreams before. He should have known, not believed he was safe. Not that it ever changed anything, knowing. 

Once again, they're not as cold as they are when they're wrapped around someone else, as one of them winds tight around his throat. They want him. They want to use him, or they want him dead, or both.

Oliver just wanted to sleep.

Not the eternal sleep of death, he mentally corrects, a real night of sleep. You have to be careful what you wish for.

The hungry tendrils press against his torso. It's his time, Oliver is dying, isn't he? It's too soon. They keep holding him tighter and tighter, everywhere, on his thighs, on his groin. The choking makes his heart beat fast, the sharp pain makes him feel alive; it's terribly ironic. Has Oliver ever seen so many veins on someone else? How will he die?

He wanted to do some things before dying. He can't remember what, but he wanted a _life_.

One of the veins tries to enter his mouth, almost softly, and Oliver keeps his lips shut tight, even though he just wants to scream _No, no, no, no, no._ Could he, with this tendril squeezing his throat? He feels so helpless, insignificant. Even if the others, the ones who don't feel death in advance, are even more so.

He runs to the bridge, like it's possible to escape. Or maybe the tendrils let him, not restraining his legs yet, just sliding between them. Maybe they make him do it.

Here he sees the truth. 

It's not his death, it's something bigger. There's shock in his mind, almost jealous bitterness, and he stops fighting for a very short moment that's still too long.

* * *

As the tendrils wrap against every man and woman on the boat, only then does Oliver realize.

They came to him first.

The tendrils sing against his throat. We still want you, we still love you, you're still special. We're yours, you're ours. They're so tight every breath hurts. He couldn't breathe at all if the air didn't go through the tendrils, becoming black as death itself.

He tries to fight again, to free himself, but his wrists are bound, as are his ankles, keeping him standing and totally still, except for the last ember of revolt flickering in his eyes.

They're all around his body now, touching him in the most intimate way, probing, pulsing, squeezing, clasping, entering every door to his body, and it hurts so much... it's the most loving way he has been embraced since Graham, no, since his mother, no, since forever. No one has ever loved him like this. Tears are rolling down his cheeks.

They don't love the others, the humans. Who in turn don't even notice the black veins heralding their end, the only solid and inevitable thing in the world.

One cold tendril is still playing with his lips, then entering his mouth, and it feels like a kiss. Oliver can't stop himself responding. No, he no longer wants to stop. If he loves all of this back, maybe it will hurt less. And It deserves it. It deserves him.

His whole body shudders in ecstasy once his decision is made. He should probably be ashamed, but he's not. Soon all the witnesses of his union will be dead, and then, probably, they will understand.

* * *

Oliver is dead. 

Can you die more than once? 

The falling debris killed him, he's sure of it. But he's still here. So he should have drowned, he should have died of cold, and of thirst. If he was not already in death's tender clutches. They protect him from all of this. He knows the sea is cold and he knows he can't breathe but it doesn't hurt.

The tendrils never let him go, even as the sky was falling. They were surrounding his whole body - not surprising, when he thinks about how it happened. They were cradling him. They were burying him. And now, Oliver feels like he's inside one of these huge veins, assimilated and softly caressed, while the inner walls press and pulse against his naked body. They no longer feel cold at all. He can feel them with all of his skin, and they feel exactly like his. Dead skin.

Maybe they didn't feel so cold because he was already half-dead, after all. 

It feels only good now.

Part of him wishes he was alive, wishes he could still feel the cold and the horror. He chases the idea away.

Where are they leading him? They are veins, aren't they? Are they slowly taking him to the great heart of death? Are they taking him home? Of course, it's the same thing.

When they spit him back out in London, where everything started, he cries. It makes sense, though. He hasn't given enough yet to deserve it.

* * *

Oliver can no longer eat or drink. He guesses he sleeps, though he can barely tell the difference between his dreams and the waking world any longer. Or he no longer needs sleep. He could have prayed for that at one time. Maybe he did. Maybe his God answered.

He can no longer have sex either. Seeing the hottest man in the world won't make him hard, neither will the touch of his own hand. So much for angel lust.

Except...

Sometimes, in the deep night, the death tendrils come back. His. The ones that were less cold - though it's not like he can feel cold any longer. The ones that love him. Well, the others are friendly too, but...

His own death, with him, always. In his heart. In his stagnant blood. Not always tangible, though.

But when they are - they wrap around him again, and Oliver can feel it, the ghost of some human lust. No, not a ghost, a shadow, projected by a brighter, colder, starker light, a God, the only God at the End of everything. 

And he kisses and moans and writhes under this tender embrace, this wonderful intrusion, until they leave him spent and fulfilled on his bed.

And love, distilled love all around it, made absolute without the impurity of life.


End file.
